Curriculum Vitae
by Sabreur
Summary: Before he became an Avenger, Clint Barton had a rather extensive resume. Clint-centric, pre-Avengers, every chapter is a different occupation. Chapter 4- And then he went and joined a gang.
1. The Amazing Hawkeye

Pretty much what the summary says. This story is primarily about Clint and his pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. antics, though there will be some familiar faces along the way. Let me know what you think! The rating is for language and possibly violence.

* * *

"Tell me something," said Clint Barton, not looking up when he heard someone enter. Instead he continued his narrow-eyed inspection of the latest object of his frustrations: a small capsule he was holding just inches in front of his face.

"Yeah?" Marcella's response eased Clint's irritation. Of the three people that were likely to enter his tent, the younger Marcella Carson was his favorite, in part because it was usually a byproduct of her ducking responsibility – a noble goal with which Clint was more than happy to assist.

He set down the capsule and looked over at her. "Are normal arrows just not good enough for people anymore?"

"Didn't we have this conversation the other day?" Marcella asked as she navigated the organized mess that was the archery tent to take a seat opposite his. Scattered across the table between them were shafts, arrowheads, bits of metal, small capsules, adhesive supplies, pieces of string, a permanent marker, and other miscellaneous materials. The objects looked like they might have been in piles, once. Also, there was glitter.

Lots and lots of glitter.

"Yeah, but seriously, glitter arrows? _Glitter_," Clint emphasized, as though the word itself was synonymous with terrible.

Marcella's mouth curved upward in the hint of a smile. "Don't agree to something if all you're going to do is complain about it."

"It's like you don't even know me."

"Good point," she replied, no longer hiding her amusement. "So," she continued, reaching forward to pick up and inspect the capsule that he had just set down, "how are these coming along?"

"Oh, you know," Clint gestured a sparkling hand to the equally sparkling table.

"So no progress."

"The problem is those things," Clint pointed an accusatory finger at the capsule. "Make them stronger, and they don't bust open when they hit the target like they're supposed to. Right now, though, they- you noticed that, right?" He moved his finger to point behind her, to the opposite side of the tent where makeshift targets had been set up. The left target had a single arrow in the center, and a trail of shining silver glitter in a straight path on the ground from it to the table.

"I wasn't going to say anything?"

"Sure you weren't."

"You beat me to it. That could actually be pretty cool, though. You could work it into the act, like a streamer."

Clint grinned, glancing over at a nearly full quiver of arrows propped against a trunk. "Not like we won't keep them all anyway."

The '_Quiver o' Fun_,' distinctly labeled in Clint's own black scrawl, contained all of the faulty and untested arrows he and Trick Shot had made so far. Despite the number, there wasn't much variety. Trick arrows were new for them, and the first thing they'd tried were flare arrows. It seemed like a simple enough idea until one of Trick Shot's actually created a small explosion on impact. No one really knew _how_, but everyone decided it'd be best to just tuck all of the flare arrows away for a while, and thus they now settled in the _Quiver o' Fun_. Them and an increasing number of glitter arrows.

"Our crowds next year are going to love it, though," Marcella said, excitement showing in her eyes. "Just picture it. Your act stays pretty much the same, right? But then, bam!" she threw hands up in gesture, "glitter. Flares. Fireworks maybe."

"Uh, fireworks _definitely_. No really, why didn't we start with those? Should have started with those." Glitter would be forever lame. Fireworks were awesome.

"You don't start with fireworks and then wind down to flares and glitter. We need to keep one-upping your act. You know; if you stick around."

Clint gave her a confused frown. If he stuck around? Where had that come from? There was something a little off about her tone, and her expression betrayed the attempted nonchalance. She shifted in her seat.

"Don't give me that look," she defended, "Everyone knows you're almost twenty-"

"Ouch. Yeah, not even nineteen here."

"-and that you have other options. And Barney's been talking-"

"Barney?" Clint's cheer diminished, as it often did at the mention of his older brother. Marcella didn't continue, only nodded. Clint sighed and rested an arm on the back of his chair. "Barney's always talking," he said dismissively, "doesn't mean anything though." At least not yet, anyway.

Barney had been growing less and less satisfied with carnival life. It wasn't unexpected, not really, but Clint was surprised all the same when he'd brought up the idea of leaving after Clint turned eighteen. '_And go where?'_ Clint had asked, effectively shutting down the proposal. Barney had mentioned it a few times since then, but not in any serious capacity. Sometimes Clint wondered when he would – because it really was a matter of when, not if. It wasn't something he liked to think about; it reminded him that he would have to make a choice, and honestly, he didn't know what it would be. The circus was his life, but Barney – despite everything – was his family.

Which was why switching to a lighter topic was in order. "Besides," Clint said, "what 'other options' are you talking about?" he asked, making air quotes that shed another wave of glitter from his hands to the table. "My one skill is shooting small, pointy sticks from a bigger, curved stick tied to a string," he said matter-of-factly as he picked up a half-finished arrow.

"So," his tone turned solemn as he placed the arrow over his heart, "unless you have a time machine to the Paleolithic Era to take me back to my people-"

"Shut up," Marcella laughed, shaking her head, "you are ridiculous. I meant, like, the Olympics or something."

Now it was Clint's turn to laugh. "I am not joining the Olympics."

"Why not, o World's Greatest Marksman?"

"Exactly," he said, giving the unfinished arrow he held a quick twirl before throwing it just over her shoulder. She startled, but then her head turned to follow theresounding _thunk_ behind her. The new half-arrow was nestled cozily against the failed glitter arrow on the left target. "I already am."

"Oooh, that's good," Marcella praised as she stood, "I should talk to my dad about letting you monologue next act."

"Be careful," Clint warned, "I'll tell him you're hiding out here."

"No need, I should get back to it; still a lot to do still before our last show here. Better to let you get ready, too."

"Please, Marcella, I could do this act with my eyes closed."

"Maybe you could," she said, walking carefully around to the front of the tent, "but your costume doesn't include glitter." Marcella graced him with one last wry smile before disappearing through the tapestry.

Clint paused, staring after her for a moment, and then looked down.

Well shit.

* * *

If there was a way to hate glitter any more, Clint discovered it throughout the afternoon in his efforts to get rid of it all. He didn't change into his Hawkeye costume until he was sure it was gone, and even then, three rogue pieces of glitter had found their way to his shoulders.

Fellow carnies may have witnessed him cursing and animatedly trying to brush them off.

The final evening of the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders was kinder to Clint. He slipped easily into the calm state of mind that reflected his practiced comfort with performing. Behind the scenes he listened to the familiar grandeurs of their show. The dancing _whoosh_ of flames, the roars of the tiger, the lasting applause for the finales of each act; each sound drew him deeper into the cool anticipation he only experienced as The Amazing Hawkeye.

Then Trick Shot went out, and Clint's grip on his bow tightened. Not long, now. Beneath the stairs of the circular stage he stretched his arms, shoulders unencumbered with any sort of quiver. With his free hand he reached up to the angular purple mask settled comfortably on the top of his head and pulled it down over his face.

Stage costume now complete, he flashed a smile to the approaching Marcella Carson, who smiled back and emphatically flicked her bangs away of her eyes. Clint took the hint and quickly brushed through his own short hair, obscuring the straps of the mask. When he looked at Marcella again she gave him a thumbs-up and handed him his first arrow.

Show time.

Clint stepped towards the stage, careful to remain concealed from the audience as he got a better view.

The round stage had four raised platforms on it, each equally spaced against the outer ring. Behind two of the platforms were tall, rectangular columns, set up between the main stage and the audience. From this angle Clint could only properly see one of the pair, with a vertical line of arrows perfectly shot into the painted targets on the inner side. Trick Shot stood at the center of the stage, firing heavier arrows one after another to where Clint knew the other column was, matching it to the first.

Only one arrow remained in the quiver when Trick Shot had finished, and he drew it now, moving back to step up on one of the lone platforms. With that last arrow nocked he angled it high, pulled back, and released. Trick Shot bowed moments before the arrow fell, landing strongly before his feet at the very edge of the platform.

The audience erupted into another loud, lasting cheer. Trick Shot stood with a satisfied smirk, and the audience cheered even louder.

Amid the clamor, Hawkeye released a breath – and an arrow of his own.

Silence fell.

Trick Shot put on an expression of indignation as he looked down at the second arrow that appeared on the platform, at a flatter angle but pointed directly against his. His head exaggeratedly moved up to the stage hall where Hawkeye stepped into the open, bow in hand.

Trick Shot's indignation rose as he strapped his bow to his back and slipped his newly freed hand into a satchel at his hip. He then dramatically held up a collection of shining gold and silver discs, fanned out in his hand like a hand of cards.

And then it began: Hawkeye broke into a run, circling the inner ring to the nearest lone arrow imbedded into a target set against the floor. In addition to the arrows lining the two columns, several stray arrows were scattered about the stage, each paired with a target that Trick Shot had hit. The first portion of the archery act was to showcase Trick Shot's abilities, but it also acted as a set-up for Hawkeye's part.

By the time Hawkeye reached the first arrow, Trick Shot had already thrown the first disc. Having kept track of it in his peripheral vision it was easy for him to quickly turn and use the arrow he'd pulled free to shoot it down, pinning the silver disc to the side of the farthest platform. He clipped the very edge of the object, and against the platform it was off-center.

The crowd gasped, though not in amazement or awe; it was the gasp a waiter received when he spilled a drink, or a figure skater heard when she fell. Unlike them, though, the archer had to hide a smile at the reaction. He enjoyed their response to his misdirection. Sometimes, it was the best part.

Hawkeye continued to the next arrow, which wasn't the nearest but another that was closer to Trick Shot on the stage. When he reached it he fired, nailing the second silver disc Trick Shot threw near where the first was pinned, once again just on the edge. His movements were quick and light, just as much a part of the act as his shooting. After the next arrow was shot the audience seemed to catch on that the first two weren't mistakes, and had quieted again to see him hit and pin the fourth disc.

The fifth disc Trick Shot rose to throw was gold, and he held it up high while Hawkeye moved deftly to one of the two pillars. He sped up and reached out his free hand, touching the edge of the raised platform and flipping himself onto it, pulling an arrow from the column as he did so. Continuing the movement into one fluid action he spun, just in time for Trick Shot to throw the gold disc.

The arrow pierced it mid-air, landing neatly on the opposing platform with the others. This time, the arrow hit both the disc and the platform dead center. It finished the pattern, leaving the five discs in a tight x-shape, the edges of each just barely touching. As for the arrows, the first four he shot could be traced to form a small square, with the fifth at the center.

With more of the act yet to come the audience was short with their applause, but they made up for it in volume, as though compensating for their earlier doubt.

The act continued with Trick Shot throwing discs and Hawkeye running and shooting arrows. It played out as a silent story, with the now-villain Trick Shot growing more and more frustrated with his inability to throw a target that the Amazing Hawkeye could not hit.

As the act progressed, the targets became smaller and more difficult to hit, and the archer did more complicated acrobatics and maneuvers to hit them. Every scattered arrow was picked up and shot to form neat patterns similar to the first, until Trick Shot only had two small gold discs left, which he threw simultaneously. Standing directly between two arrows, Hawkeye strung them both at once and let them fly. He didn't miss either.

The crowd gasped in awe this time and seemed on the verge of applause, but the archers were still in motion and two arrows were still in their original targets. Hawkeye raced towards one, while Trick Shot – the character he was playing at the peak of his frustration – reached for his bow once again and went for the other. They moved in practiced tandem, Hawkeye recovering his arrow and circling around to stand on one of the platforms backed by the still arrow-lined column, and Trick Shot moving around to the other similar platform to stand opposite him.

For a moment they stared at each other, and then Trick Shot lifted his arrow to his bow. Hawkeye lifted his arrow as well – and threw it straight up, into the air.

It was like firing a pistol at the start of a race; without hesitation, Hawkeye spun to grab one of the arrows that lined the column. Instead of pulling it out to replace his discarded projectile, he used it as leverage in a similar way he had used the other props, climbing the column of arrows as he would a ladder with his bow still in hand. When near enough to the top he leaped to seize the edge, pushed his feet against the column, and followed the momentum into a one-arm handstand before flipping to his feet.

All the while, Trick Shot had an arrow trained on him. Hawkeye looked down, reached out his hand, and into it fell the arrow he had thrown up just moments ago. Hawkeye nocked his arrow and released it just after Trick Shot had released his.

The two projectiles met mid-air, ricocheted in opposing paths, and landed into the original targets they had been pulled from.

For a moment longer there was silence, and then the applause began. It was tremendous. This was it, then. The last night of their show.

Clint faced the audience with triumph. This year's act had been the most difficult he'd ever had to perform, and tonight on the final night, not a single thing had gone wrong.

It felt amazing.

* * *

The hours after the spectators had left were spent taking down and packing up at least half of the carnival. It was hard work, but everyone was accustomed to it and did their part, helping with whatever they could and sharing cheerful conversation all the while.

Clint worked well into the night, even after others started to disappear into their tents. Trick Shot and Barney, Clint noticed, withdrew even earlier than they usually did on these nights, nowhere to be seen after the first hour. Not for the first time Clint had the urge to apologize to Mr. Carson on their behalf, but instead just resolved to work longer himself.

"Thanks for all your help tonight, Clint," Marcella said tiredly, once it was well past midnight. Packing was officially done for the night, but Clint stayed up to help her with one last tent.

"Don't worry about it," Clint said, pushing the folded tarp across the grass next to the box of metal stakes. "You should get some sleep. I'll take it from here."

"What about the archery tent?" Marcella frowned. "You said you wanted to take that down tonight."

"We can take it down in the morning. I'll pack it up everything in it tonight," he said. Marcella's frown deepened.

"Alone?"

"Yeah," he replied. Marcella looked like she wanted to challenge this, so Clint added quickly, "you don't need to help me; it's not your fault Barney and Trick quit early. Besides, I'm the one who knows where everything goes."

She snorted. "That's right, you still think there's an order to that mess you set up."

"There is! It's an _organized_ mess."

"Uh-huh. Well okay, I'm going to sleep, then. See you in the morning, Clint. Oh- and your act tonight? That was the best," she said with a small smile that turned sly. "I can't wait to see it with glitter."

"Get out of here. You're banished." He offered her a tired smile. "And thanks."

Marcella left, and Clint appraised the pile of trunks and boxes they had packed before lifting the first and taking it over to load into the back of one of the caravans. The rest of them he stacked to carry two at a time, and in fifteen more minutes everything was moved.

For a moment, he leaned against the vehicle and closed his eyes. He was tired, but could tell it would be one of those nights where he wouldn't be able to sleep for a while anyway. It wouldn't take very long to pack up that last tent – maybe another hour – and then he could rest easy. He could always sleep more once they hit the road tomorrow if he needed it.

Clint opened his eyes and pushed himself from the vehicle, stretching out the muscles in his arms as he walked to the archery tent. Maybe he'd shoot a couple of arrows before taking down the targets. Just three or four, he decided, as he reached the tent and pulled back the tapestry to step inside.

He froze to a halt.

There was Trick Shot, in the middle of the tent, transferring money from a briefcase Clint immediately recognized at Mr. Carson's into a dull satchel held open by his own brother, Barney. Clint felt the strong and horrible sense of déjà vu.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked harshly, stepping further into the room.

"Shit," he heard Barney utter, while Trick Shot set down the briefcase and stepped forward. "Clint, good, you're here." He spoke conspiratorially, as though Clint were included; as though he'd been in on whatever this was all along. Clint scowled. "This is what it looks like, isn't it?"

"We're getting a new start," Barney said as he dropped the bag and stepped up to Trick Shot's side.

"Like this?!" Clint snapped, his fists clenching. "After everything they've done for us-"

"You mean for _you_," Barney shot back automatically, before he hesitated and changed his tone. "Look, Clint, this is an opportunity. You missed your shot with the Swordsman, but now we can do it properly, and together."

Clint stared at his brother. He couldn't believe how- how _earnest_ he sounded, like he really did want Clint with him. Like he truly believed that his actions weren't wrong.

"We're leaving tonight," Barney continued when he didn't respond. "Everything's ready. We just need to go to the truck, and then we can go anywhere. We're not kids anymore; it's time to leave the circus. Come on, Clint," he urged.

Again Clint was thrown by his sincerity. It was the first time in months Barney had been level with him, and not irritated. His expression, too, was set with an honest determination that implored Clint's allegiance. It had been a long time since Barney had last made him feel like they were brothers. It seemed unfair that this was the situation that brought it out.

"Well, boy?" Trick Shot cut into his thoughts. "What'll it be?"

Right. Trick Shot. It wouldn't just be him and Barney, not with Trick Shot around. Even if he weren't… Clint knew he'd have to make a choice eventually. He wasn't prepared for it to be now, but Barney's actions weighed more heavily than his words.

"No," Clint replied solidly. "No," he raised his voice, "you're thieves, and I'm turning you in to-"

"Thought not," Trick Shot cut in as he lunged forward, wrapping his hands around Clint's throat. "Sorry, Hawkeye. Can't have you ruin…" Clint lost track of Trick Shot's words as he grabbed his wrists, trying to pry them from his neck.

Trick Shot's grip was surprisingly strong, and only seemed to get stronger the more Clint struggled. Could hear Barney's voice- it sounded frantic, loud- but he couldn't process the words, couldn't process anything as he tried to pull away- tried to breathe- tried to call out- tried to not- couldn't-

Couldn't…

There was noise. Something hit his back. More noise; different directions. A sudden gasp-wait, it was his. He was breathing again. He could breathe. There was a flash of movement, and another sound – not a voice, the tent. Trick Shot- Barney- he couldn't see them anymore, he was… on the ground?

Clint bolted upright in a wide-eyed haze before the tent rushed back into focus. They were gone. The briefcase was empty. He stared ahead for a moment longer before the situation hit him with more finality.

Automatically Clint was on his feet and seizing his bow from the weapon stand near the targets where he'd left it. Trick Shot's bow was gone. He glanced to the empty space just to the right of the stand. So were the arrows. His eyes flashed to the targets, confirming that there were no stray arrows there either.

"Da-" he started to curse, but the pain in his throat flared and it turned into more of a choke. His head was pounding. Damnit, damnit, _damnit_! They were getting away- they _couldn't_ get away!

Frantically Clint threw the first target aside, and then the other, searching the ground for any arrows he may have missed. He just needed one. Come on, there had to be at least _one_.

Determined to tear through the rest of tent if need be, Clint turned to see that it wasn't necessary. There, by the table- there _were_ some arrows that had been left! There was a whole quiver. In a different situation he may have smiled, or more likely, laughed. The most he could manage now was relief as he strapped the _Quiver o' Fun_ to his back and drew a fresh arrow while rushing out of the tent into the moonless night.

Trick Shot and Barney were predictably out of sight, but he was quick to spot the next best thing: a subtle trail of small, shiny bits. Glitter. There had barely been a patch of ground in the archery tent that wasn't dazzled with it. He came close to a smile.

Clint followed the waning trail in a sprint to the edge of the circus grounds until the sparkles disappeared, and at that point he didn't need them, because it didn't take his sharp vision to spot the tail lights of the truck speeding away. He lifted the first arrow to his bow, held it for a moment to aim, and took the shot.

The arrow pierced the back tire neatly and a bright orange flare lit up against it, surging powerfully as the truck slowed to a stop. Not so far off now, and Clint was already running.

He pulled an arrow from his quiver, and put it back. No.

One of the truck doors swung open.

Clint tried another arrow; still no.

Trick Shot got out, satchel in hand. The passenger door opened.

Clint drew another arrow, and once again immediately replaced it.

Barney jogged over to Trick Shot, who grabbed his arm roughly and pointed with his other hand to the flare arrow sticking out from the tire.

Barney looked back towards Clint, but didn't seem to panic. If anything he looked lost, and that's when it occurred to Clint: Barney couldn't see him. Neither of them could. He was operating in the cover of darkness, well away from the flare that illuminated their positions.

Clint slowed to a stop, and drew one more arrow.

_Bingo_.

Trick Shot gave Barney's arm a hasty tug in an effort to get them running, but it was too late. Clint had his target, and he had his arrow. He took the shot.

The arrow soared through the sky, halfway to its target before it began to emanate bits of glitter that grew to a thick stream by the time it cut through the straps of the satchel. The strap broke and the bag and its contents of stolen money fell to the ground, covered in a layer of sparkles.

Clint smirked. Glitter arrow. He took back everything he said about them.

Trick Shot cursed and made an effort to shove the money back into the bag, but when he reached down another arrow pierced his jacket sleeve, pinning it to the ground and making it glisten with more glitter.

After that arrow Clint started to run again. They still had a head start, but he could catch up with them now, and he knew he would.

Trick Shot seemed to realize this. When he freed his sleeve he didn't even bother trying to recover the money that had spilled onto the ground, even though it had to be well over half. Instead he yelled something at Barney and sprinted off, Barney quick on his heels and throwing apprehensive looks over his shoulder.

Now the flare worked against Clint. He had seen which direction they'd left in, but couldn't make out the subtle contrasts in the darkness beyond the intense spot of light. That was fine, though; they'd leave a trail.

Clint stopped short of the truck when he caught up to it, and instead circled in a wide berth around it to avoid being spotted in the light of the flare if either of them looked back. When he caught sight of the glitter trail on the other side, he followed it, adjusting his eyes quickly to the darkness and its discrepancies. For several minutes he ran, until the soft street lights of the town came into view. He tried to spot either Barney or Trick Shot, but couldn't.

Undeterred and fueled by adrenaline, he continued to track the still prominent silver trail.

He followed it just inside the town border, before it curved into a space between buildings. Clint didn't slow his pace, but he did prepare himself to fire another arrow at a moment's notice.

The first alley turned into another, and another after that, and then-

Barney. Barney was standing at the end of the new alley, breathing heavily and looking at Clint with a mix of emotions he couldn't decipher.

"Barney." Whatever tone Clint was going for didn't take; he realized by the dry rasp of his own voice how out of breath he was, and his throat was still smarting from earlier.

"Clint," Barney acknowledged weakly, "Change your mind?"

If he were anyone else, Clint might shoot him. But he was his brother and he seemed… defeated? Remorseful? Clint lowered his bow a fraction and swallowed, trying to regain some moisture in his throat to ask, "Why?"

Barney's expression went from what was almost akin to regret to conflicted, and then to anger. "Just… do it," he said finally.

Clint wrinkled his brow in confusion. Do what? Did Barney think he was going to shoot him? Wait- wait, no, Barney wasn't talking to _him_. Alarms rang out in his head. One of them was high and frantic, shrilling _get out of here_ over and over, but it was overpowered by another message, brash and rhythmic: _get ready_.

For all the good it did.

Clint turned – weapon ready, prepared to fight – right into Trick Shot's fist, colliding against Clint's stomach and suddenly he couldn't breathe again. He choked as he was again overcome with a sense of panic, cut short when Trick shot threw another fist. Everything went dark.

* * *

The sky was orange when Clint opened his eyes. The sky was orange, and he was in an alley. His head ached. So did his chest and jaw, he discovered, groaning as he stood up. Bits of yesterday – had it been yesterday? – came back to him in flashes: laughing with Marcella, climbing a ladder of arrows, folding up tents, walking in on Barney and Trick Shot stealing, chasing after them, thinking he was clever… getting beat down.

Clint let out a frustrated yell and kicked the brick wall, hard. Well, at least his voice was working now. He kicked the wall again, despite that the only thing it achieved was hurting himself. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe he deserved it.

He kicked it one more time before slumping to his knees, staring down at the purple bow that lay vacant on the pavement. After a moment he reached down and picked it up, gripping it tightly. It didn't do much, but hanging on to the one thing he was good at almost made it seem like he was a little less bad at everything else. Like he hadn't failed the circus.

The circus.

Clint struggled to his feet and fled the alley. It was dusk, just about. Logically he knew that they would have moved on by now, that they had a schedule and they kept to it. He warded off that sinking feeling with hope, though, because there was a chance. The show must go on, Clint knew, but he was a part of the show. Would they leave without him?

He turned onto the street where the town began and picked up to as heavy a jog as he could muster in his condition. When he reached a dirt road, he stopped and looked down. Right away he noticed the swerved tire marks, the brown bag strap, and of course, those lines of glitter mixed with the dirt and grass. Then, he looked up.

Not a tent, not a car, and not a single booth in sight.

So that was it, then. They'd moved on. The sinking feeling returned, unrestrained.

Clint stared out into the open grass for several minutes before turning his back to it. He adjusted the strap of his quiver, held his bow close, and started walking back to the town.

He didn't know what he would do when he got there. He didn't want to think about it. Instead he dragged his feet, prolonging the minutes until he would have to figure out what kind of future there was for an ex-carnie who just lost everything.

* * *

Next chapter:

_At the circus he was one of the carnies; out here he was an armed, purple freak._


	2. Hustler

Thank you for the reviews! And follows/favs too of course, it's encouraging. :) Here's chapter two!

* * *

When Clint reached the town, he wandered, mentally replaying the events of last night. The more he thought about it, the more he realized just how much this whole mess was his fault.

He should have seen it coming. He'd been through almost _exactly_ all of it before, with the Swordsman. Barney had flat out told him he was stupid for not helping his old mentor embezzle money. Fool him once, shame on them, but fool him twice…

Even more glaring of an error was going after the two of them alone. He'd had plenty of opportunities to get help: after he first heard them conspiring, when they'd fled the tent, once he shot their tire flat and recovered some of the money, before he recklessly chased them down an alleyway. That was only naming a few. If he had just reported them or gotten help at any of those points, none of this would have happened. He'd still be with the circus, Barney and Trick Shot would probably be caught, and Mr. Carson would still have his money.

Clint didn't get a do-over, though. He'd had one chance, and what the hell had he been thinking? Wasn't he a little old to be playing Captain America?

He made himself sick, to the point where somewhere in his vapid trudge he accelerated into a sprint to the side of a small building, just for some kind of escape from the prying eyes that questioned his bow and judged his costume. Because he totally had planned this, this whole making a bright purple parade of himself thing. He threw his back heavily against the wall and tried to breathe, but the isolation was comforting for all of two seconds before he started shaking.

Time passed strangely. He didn't know how long he stayed there, crippled by pain and guilt, but it was later in the night when he was snapped out of it.

"-ey!" Clint processed from the voice. He lifted his head and looked over at a woman that was a few yards away. She straightened up once she had his attention.

"We're closing," she said sternly, though her expression turned cautious. "You can't stay here."

"Oh," was all he said, frowning as he stepped away from the building. He had no idea where 'here' was. "Sorry," he added, and he really was, to be inconveniencing like this, but his tone was only hollow. He cleared his throat. "I'll just… do you know where I could find a," he faltered. Find a what?

The woman raised an eyebrow, but he honestly had no idea where he was going with that one. He knew he couldn't stay wallowing here forever, but what did he do now, and where did he go?

"There's a payphone just a block up," she said with a vague, impatient gesture behind him.

Clint let out a strained laugh. Yeah, because he definitely had someone to call. "What about… a motel?" he tried.

The woman didn't respond at first, just looked him over from where she stood. Finally she sighed, a spot of sympathy in her eyes. Or maybe pity. She turned and stepped away, beckoning him to follow. Gratefully he did, at enough of a distance to keep her from getting any more uncomfortable. He couldn't say he blamed her. At the circus he was one of the carnies; out here he was an armed, purple freak.

"See this road?" she said, waiting for him to catch up. They stood at the edge of the parking lot to a small drug store, and she gestured to a slim road beyond it that disappeared behind other buildings and trees. "Taking it all the way down will bring you to the north edge of the city. There's a motel, gas station, bar; about a mile down," she explained.

"That's easy," he commented.

"Small town," she replied.

Clint could feel her eyes on him as he looked down the path, but didn't pay it much attention as he thought about the road. Walking wouldn't be a problem, but once he got there… he kind of wished it was all farther away.

He heard the woman sigh again, in a hesitant sort of way. "Well, good luck," she said at last, before slowly starting away toward the only parked car in the lot.

"Yeah," Clint replied with a slight nod, "thanks." He took to the road.

Motel, gas station, bar; he didn't know what time it was, but despite the drug store closing down, he figured those would still be open. At least for a little longer anyway. He could just check the hotel out; see if they had any spare rooms, see how much they charged, see if they'd consider waiving that for a night? He doubted he'd be so lucky.

He didn't get very far before his stomach grumbled, followed by an unhelpful pang of hunger. "Yeah, I know," he muttered, not wanting to think about the last time he ate. A few more steps and his stomach growled again.

"Shut up," he growled back, though the damage was done, and walking got to be a bit harder. More than anything, he was thirsty. He was no stranger to hunger, but with every new step he could only think about the dryness in his mouth, the pit in his stomach, and the returning ache in his head.

Water wouldn't be as hard though. Worst case scenario he'd ask to use a bathroom and drink from the tap. A drinking fountain if he was lucky, but he wasn't going to cross his fingers.

Just as the drug store woman had said, when Clint reached the edge of the town there was a motel and a bar across the street from each other, and a gas station a little up the road. With the thought of water in mind he was actually a bit happy now that the walk wasn't as long as it could have been, but first thing was first so he walked to the front of the motel. It was at least worth a shot. That in mind, he took a breath and pushed in the door.

Inside the small entry room, a middle-aged man looked up from the front desk and wrinkled his brow before offering the archer a slight smile.

"Single room?" he asked, content to not ask any questions.

"Yeah, er, how much does it cost?" Clint asked, scratching the back of his neck.

"Forty a night, for a single," the man said patiently. "Unless you needed a double?"

"I don't have any money," he admitted.

"Oh," the man replied, smile disappearing. "We take credit…?" He trailed off, understanding that he didn't have that, either.

The silence was pretty much as awkward as Clint expected.

"Please?" he asked achingly, before the moment could drag on any longer. "Just for one night, then I'll be gone, I-"

"I'm sorry," the hotel clerk cut in, eyes averted from the archer's face. "I can't. We have a policy," he said in a now short, clipped tone. He glanced back at the archer quickly, probably wondering if he was going to give him any trouble.

Well, he wasn't.

Clint just nodded numbly and left, greeted once again by the night air as he stepped outside. He had figured as much, really. Even so, he couldn't help but feel the dejection from not just the motel but the circus all over again.

God, he wanted to go back. He wanted to go back so badly. Not back to the circus exactly; back in time, rather? He didn't know. Anything but this would do. Clint didn't have that option, though, so there was nothing to do but stand out on the sidewalk and weigh the two options he did have: the gas station and the bar.

First he looked to the gas station, trying to figure out if there was anything he could achieve there. The bar was the only alternative, and that thought made him scowl. Clint hadn't stepped foot inside a bar in his life, and you know what? He was good with that. When he forced himself to even consider it, all he could think about was alcoholism and how bars only existed to encourage it, how bullshit it was that there were so many of them in the first place, how it was probably his best bet to loiter under the pretense of ordering, how heavenly it would be to get cold water in a glass…

Damnit. Okay. Logic was winning. He crossed the street, idly wishing he had pockets if only for the opportunity to shove his hands in them.

When Clint entered the bar he was met with the eyes of nearly everyone inside, and not a few derisive snorts before small chatter resumed. Maybe in different circumstances he'd have bristled at the reception, but right now it was honestly hard to care. He seated himself at one of the tables in the bar area, and the waitress was smiling when she came over.

"Nice costume! Did you get it from the carnival?" she asked cheerfully.

"…Yeah," Clint replied. Well, she wasn't wrong. At least she was being friendly about it, job description or not. Meanwhile there were a few people at the bar that looked over and snickered for about the third time now, and it was getting on his nerves.

"What can I get you, then?" the waitress asked.

"Water, for now?" Clint asked hopefully.

"You got it. I'll get that for you right away, give you some time to look over the menu. Let me know if you have any questions, my name's Emma," she smiled and bounded off.

When Clint got his water he emptied it quickly, prompting Emma to swoop by with a refill and check in on him. Clint didn't want to dine and dash, but reading over the menu, he was sorely tempted. Instead he just continued to look it over while taking steadier drinks of water, wishing he could pay for something and wondering when he ought to leave.

Then, of course, that feeling of being stared at returned. It was the men at the bar again.

"Yeah, someone's a little too into the circus," laughed one of the guys, with brown hair and a short beard.

"I mean, shit, bow and everything," a man with blonde hair and sideburns agreed, while the third plaid-shirted man just laughed.

Clint took a moment to glower, because screw them. Plaid noticed, though, and nudged the others. Their attentions were on him now as they continued to snicker at his costume.

"Uh oh guys," Beard said in mock-concern, "I think Robin Hood heard us."

"Oh hey Robin Hood, what's up?" asked Blonde-burns with a self-satisfied smirk, like it was funny the first time.

"Could you give it a rest?" Clint asked heatedly. He really didn't have the patience for this.

"Oooh, 'give it a rest!'" Blonde-burns mocked.

"Yeah man, just 'give it a rest!'" Beard joined, further convincing Clint that they were heckling parakeets that got off on repetition, though that could be giving them too much credit.

"Come on kid, most of us saw the act; it was cool but not _that_ cool," Plaid said.

"It was kind of cool," Beard apparently felt the need to point out.

"The costume wasn't," Blonde-burns argued.

"No, no it was not," Beard laughed and shook his head.

"I mean I guess you could overlook it with that guy," Blonde-burns continued, "but can you even shoot? Kid can't even shoot," he answered his own question, shaking his head to the others.

"Want a bet?" Clint growled, having half a mind to prove his accuracy right then and there with his fork.

"Oooh, did you hear that? That's a challenge!"

"Sure, twenty bucks," Blonde-burns crossed his arms, thinking he had him there.

But he didn't. Not at all. Clint's eyes went wide, causing the men to laugh again, but this time the archer was much less irritated. They wanted to bet money on whether or not he could use a bow and arrow? The corner of his lip twitched into a small smirk, but only for a moment.

"Forty," Clint countered, looking at Blonde-burns.

"Kid thinks he can do it," Beard laughed, "Are you in trouble?" Plaid snickered, but Blonde-burns just considered this for another moment and nodded in challenge. "I gotta see this; you're on Robin Hood."

"Bring it," Clint retorted. "What-" he began, but then suddenly frowned. There was a problem with this whole thing. They were in a bar. And even if they weren't, even if they left, he couldn't just shoot a bow in the streets at some random target… could he? His least offensive arrow trailed glitter. He sighed raggedly, trying not to let the full force of his frustration show. No, he couldn't.

"I can't."

"Aww, he's not going to make a fool out of himself after all," Plaid frowned.

"I can't shoot a bow and arrow in a bar!" Clint snapped. "Or in town, for that matter!"

"If you want to give up just say," Blonde-burns waved a hand.

"No, he has a point," Beard said, suddenly thoughtful. "Can't go shootin' arrows in bars," he shook his head solemnly.

"Damn," Blonde-burns replied with a frown, because of course it took Beard saying it for him to realize he was right. "So what do we do…" he looked between Beard and Plaid for advice.

They had nothing, and neither did Clint, who was silently fuming about the loss of what would have been a guaranteed place to stay. He wanted to just get up and leave – maybe kick at a wall again – but then Plaid's head snapped up with the wide eyes of enlightenment.

"Darts!"

"Darts?" Blonde-burns questioned, before the realization seemed to dawn on him as well. "Darts!"

"Darts! Yes!" Beard grinned.

"Darts?" Clint asked, too hopeful to care about contributing to what had to be the new dumbest exchange of the night.

"Try to keep up," said Blonde-burns, standing and gesturing to an open arched doorway. Clint hadn't given this other sections of the bar much note when he'd sat down, but beyond the doorway was a more open game area with fewer customer tables, a pool table, and yes: dartboards.

Darts. He could do darts.

"It's basically the same thing, right?" shrugged Plaid.

It definitely is not," Clint argued, because yeah, there was a difference. A pretty big one, actually.

"Well, if you don't think you can do it," Beard goaded.

Clint snorted and lifted his half-full glass of water to his lips, finishing it quickly before he stood. "Bring it."

When he followed them into the other room was when Clint realized that their exchange hadn't gone unnoticed and eyes were on him again, most curious, some concerned. He spied Emma in the latter category, looking a bit at a loss. He offered her an apologetic shrug and nod; he'd be back at his table soon enough. Maybe even manage to order something. His mouth watered at the thought, but first thing's first.

Over at the dart board, Blonde-burns retrieved three darts and handed Clint one once the archer set his bow down on the nearest empty table.

"One shot, hit the center," the man decided, "but that's not a problem if you know what you're doing, is it?"

Clint just scoffed and snatched the dart, stalking to the line with determination and turned to face the wall. He was given a wide enough berth, and the three men fell silent, along with the other occupied table of four in the room. They were all staring at him. For the first time that day, it wasn't uncomfortable.

The archer rolled the dart between his fingers thoughtfully, testing the shape and weight while his eyes surveyed the target.

"Well? Get on with it," Beard urged. Clint shot him and his friends a quick glance before his eyes flashed back to the board and he took a deep breath, lifting the dart. Archery or not, Clint never missed, and he wasn't about to in a bar. He raised his hand a little more, brought it back for momentum and then plunged it forward, releasing the dart to fly and strike the board.

On the third ring from the center.

"Ha!" Blonde-burns exclaimed in a triumphant chorus with the others, "Forty bucks, pay up!"

Clint froze, staring at the dart as disbelief flooded his eyes. "But- no, no I can do this! One more chance!" he pleaded.

"That's not how it works, kid," he 'tsk'-ed, while Plaid shook his head in false-solemnity.

After a beat, Clint tried again. "Double or nothing!"

There was a pause as the three exchanged considerate glances. While Blonde-burns looked almost concerned, Beard just grinned greedily and reached for his back pocket. "I'll see that raise. Sometimes, experience is the best thing to teach kids not to be stupid with their money," he said sagely as he set two twenty-dollar bills down on the table. Blonde-burns seemed content with this, and his smirk returned as he handed Clint a second dart.

"Don't expect a triple or nothing when you lose," he warned, but Clint ignored him.

Double or nothing, here we go.

He had been a little worried that it wouldn't take, but it was good to know that he still knew how to play a crowd. A very small, three-person crowd that was under the influence so maybe he shouldn't give himself too much credit, but all the same. Either way things were turning up, so it was with a small smile that he let the second dart soar. It nailed the middle circle in its dead center.

Clint straightened and looked over at the three of them. They were speechless. "Well," he said, with no small amount of satisfaction, "I didn't see that one coming."

"No way," Beard said finally, "No goddamn way- do that again."

"What, did you change your mind about triple or nothing?" Clint raised an eyebrow. "Because I could do triple or nothing."

Again, silence. This time it was broken by a hearty, approving laugh by a woman from the table of four, shortly joined by the other people at her table. One of them was even a slow-clapper, bless his heart.

With a more genuine grin Clint turned to Blonde-burns expectantly, and though he grumbled, the man did fish out forty of his own dollars and added them to Beard's contribution before handing the wrinkled bills to Clint.

"Thank you," Clint said without mockery, no longer angry about their rudeness from before. Hell, right now he loved these three idiots. After securely folding the money in his hand he gave Blonde-burns one more look and gestured for the last dart. Once he handed it over the archer turned to retrieve his bow, throwing the dart casually across his shoulder mid-step.

Clint didn't need the visual confirmation. The beat of silence followed by a soft "damn" told him well enough that he'd hit his target. He was getting a burger.

* * *

Clint woke up early the next morning to the alarm he set, a good few hours before check out. Going back to the motel last night had been just about as awkward as he expected, but getting a place to stay more than made up for it. The first thing he'd done was take a shower, and damn did it feel good.

On the not so good side, he'd caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and realized that the hit that knocked him out left a sizeable bruise creeping up his lower jaw. This morning, it was darker.

Leaving his bow and arrows on the bed, he put his circus getup back on and stalked outside. Trick Shot was an asshole. A selfish, spineless prick who jail was almost too good for, at least without an arrow in the shoulder or something.

Clint contemplated this as he set off on the sidewalk back into town. Maybe he should have shot him in the leg, instead of shooting down the bag strap. He ran a hand though his hair and just added it to the mental list of things he could have done that would have fixed everything, but didn't. Ugh. Screw Trick Shot.

Barney, too.

Was he happy now, whatever he was up to? Who knew. Probably. Damnit. It wasn't fair, for them to get away with it – and yeah, that one was on Clint – but they had everything planned, for who knew how long. They were criminals.

Had Mr. Carson filed a police report? Maybe he ought to find a paper. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Where did he fit in all of that? He'd disappeared, too. Surely they wouldn't think…

No. All the signs were there, and anyway, they ought to know he would never. Marcella, at the very least. Not that the police wouldn't still think of him as a suspect, depending on their involvement. If they were even involved. Either way Clint became paranoid and picked up his pace.

He made it past the drug store and back out to the street, unfamiliar despite having walked it the night before. This time he acknowledged his surroundings, picking out buildings and stores from a distance, figuring out if any would be helpful to him, painfully aware of how much he stood out yet again. Thankfully most seemed to regard him as either a curiosity or a fool, which was fine by him.

He stopped to look at the newspaper headlines, though none mentioned anything about the circus or any police activity. He couldn't decide how he felt about this, but his paranoia did subside at the very least. The next time someone passed him on the street he stopped them to ask if the town had a thrift shop, and much to his delight, they did.

Clint was surprised at how cheap some of the things were there, and with a budget down to about $30, he'd thought he'd for sure have to commit at least to the purple boots until he got more money. Instead he managed to leave the store wearing a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and _shoes_. As for his circus costume, it sat bundled in the duffel bag he'd spent the most of his money on.

It wasn't long enough to fit his bow, but it could hold the quiver so that would have to do for now. He felt lucky to have found it at all.

Almost an hour later he was back at the edge of town, using his last $2 at the gas station to get a plastic bottle of cold water and a small bag of trail mix, a half an hour before checkout. Clint drank the water on the way back to the motel and took another quick shower when he got there, not knowing when his next opportunity would be.

Afterwards he refilled his water bottle from the sink and re-wrapped the small soap bar back into the paper package he'd opened carefully for just this reason, setting it neatly on top of the other untouched mini-soap that was next to what was left of the mini-shampoo. It was a motel, after all; he'd already paid for the right to take these with him. Which didn't so much explain the white hand towel he stuffed into his duffel bag after, but. It was only one?

As he'd guessed, the bow didn't fit in the bag. Clint frowned at the troublesome object; these things ought to be collapsible, really. The thought of something like that made him chuckle dismissively before he slipped his arm through the bow and the string, strapping it over his shoulder. Then he grabbed his bag, turned in the key at the office, and set out to the street once again.

This time, he turned north and just started walking.

He never wanted to stay here in – hell, what was it even called? Well it didn't matter, he wasn't staying. Clint didn't know if going somewhere else would help him forget what happened, but he sure as hell wasn't going to if he stayed. Honestly if he never saw this place again, it'd be too soon.

Except for, surprisingly, the bar. He glanced back at the building with a slight smile. While a part of him still pretty much loathed the places for existing, after last night he decided that it was something he could tolerate, which was good because he fully intended to.

Hustling had worked a little too well for him to just do it once, and he had to get back on his feet somehow. Things would be okay. Not great, but okay.

* * *

Twenty-three miles of unsuccessful hitchhiking later, Clint was numb in the legs but made it to the next town over where he repeated his visit to a bar and then a motel.

It hadn't been as easy as the first time. He was never approached to prove his skill, so instead he had to find people that would play darts with him and make wagers anywhere between friendly and competitive.

This time he put himself down for two nights in the motel, paying for a third when money was good, all the while building up his necessities. In just two night he was able to pay for regular enough meals, get three more changes of clothes (_including_ socks and underwear; not that commando didn't have its place, but score), a toothbrush and toothpaste (_finally_), a razor, a watch, two pens, one notebook, a hooded sweatshirt (blue, not purple), and a new duffel bag big enough to fit it all, bow included.

The third night hustling was where he ran into some problems. It seemed like people were done taking him up on his wagers. It shouldn't have surprised him in retrospect, but it did, so he had to rethink his method.

On the fourth morning he left for another new town, remaining unsuccessful at hitchhiking and vowing to be more successful at hustling.

He was.

This time he allowed himself to lose more, and much as it pained him to lose money, it helped him gain more in the long run so he managed. He also kept his wins less drastic and instead disguised them as close calls or luck, only rarely striking the center circle at all.

This new strategy worked wonders. He stayed in the third town for a little over a week, and though he was becoming a little less successful as people were catching on, this time when he moved on it was because it felt like a good time to do so and not because he had to.

Now if only his hitchhiking attempts actually worked for once. Not that he wasn't getting used to walking anywhere from fifteen to thirty miles in one day, but what did a guy have to do to get picked up once in a while?

For a while, he continued like that. It fell into an easy routine: check into a motel, hustle for a week or so, exit town north.

He got good at it, too. He thought about sticking around his fifth town, and he'd tried – stayed there for two weeks – but without the novelty of finding somewhere new, he got a little too caught up in his own head. It was something he'd been avoiding. He just… didn't want to think about it, so he moved on from there, too. Clint didn't know how long the routine would continue, but the great thing was he didn't have to think about that, either.

Well, until he did, and it was the weather of all things that prompted it.

With nearly two months since it all started, the fall air had turned crisp and trees were beginning to shed. Could he keep this up during winter? The weekly, sometimes eight hour walks? No, he really shouldn't. It would be hell – frozen over, or, something. It wasn't even like he was hurting for money anymore, he just needed to pick a place and stay. Get a real job, figure things out, all of that stuff.

Somewhere big, he decided. A city. Easier to get lost in, and easier to find work.

This time when he walked, he only went about a mile out before setting down his bag and stubbornly stuck his thumb out to the road, no matter how long it took.

Or short, really, because he only waited for around an hour until someone slowed to a stop, for the first time ever. Turns out he was headed to Chicago. Clint paid for the gas.

* * *

Next chapter:

_She had a long grey coat, pale skin, and gaze so intense Clint felt condemned on the spot. Even more distinct was her hair. It had such a striking red hue, he didn't know how he could have missed her._


	3. Barista

First and foremost, thank you again to everyone who's read/reviewed! Sorry about the delay, but this part is a good chunk longer than the others, so hopefully you'll enjoy that. That said, I wouldn't expect every chapter to be as long as this. The lengths will probably vary based on the profession, plot, and who knows what other factors. I guess we'll see as we go along, yeah? Anyway, here you go: obligatory coffee shop issue! With a side of Christmas.

* * *

"So that's a medium latte with vanilla and two small mochas, to go?" Clint repeated as he registered in the order.

"That's right," the man nodded as he set a bill on the counter. Then he smiled in amusement. "Did you know," he began, which only made Clint internally cringe because yep, here it comes, "that your café name is spelled wrong? It's 'espresso,' with an 'S,' but your sign has an 'X.'"

"Yeah," Clint replied with a rehearsed chuckle, "Nothing to do about it now, I guess."

"I bet. You probably hear that all the time, don't you?" He went on, as if Clint didn't hear _that_ all the time either.

"Here and there," he smiled and quickly made change for the man before starting on his drinks. He really shouldn't be internally irritated at the man for trying to make small talk. If anything he should be mad at his boss for naming the place 'Expresso' in the first place, but seriously, the number of times he'd had this conversation was too high for how long he'd worked here.

Still, it was a simple job. He was never spared a second glance, not even from his boss. As sketchy of a hire as Clint was, Expresso was a worse place to work – or at least, the neighborhood was. Someone had been legitimately _stabbed_ on the same block just a couple of months ago. The rumors of them bordering gang territory? Probably true. It was enough to make two of the former employees quit on the spot, and that's when Clint got his job.

The pay wasn't great, but he managed okay enough. The important part was that it was enough to fill his time with. Every day was the same thing, monotonous enough where it stopped requiring too much effort on his part and distracting enough to keep his mind away from the circus and the betrayal.

Every so often Mr. Fuller forced him to take a day off, and those days were a little harder. The slightest lull and thoughts of his past life and mistakes returned, urging him to try to deal with it. How, though? And why should he? He'd fucked up, and it was in the past now. There was nothing to deal with. The crippling feeling he got in his chest every so often might indicate otherwise, but it was just going to have to go away on its own.

He was fine with this. All he had to worry about now was sticking to his new routine and preparing people coffee.

"All right," Clint said, fitting the three finished coffee cups into a tray and setting it on the counter for the customer, "here you go. Have a good one," he said politely.

"Thank you, you too," the man replied, zipping up his jacket before heading out, the door swinging silently after him.

With no more customers right now, Clint leaned against the side of the counter and crossed his arms, scanning the café casually. His eyes froze at the front counter. Never mind, there _was_ another customer here. Waiting. Wait- _what_?

"Sorry!" he said quickly, pushing from the side counter and going back to the register, "I didn't see you, there."

She had a long grey coat, pale skin, and gaze so intense Clint felt condemned on the spot. Even more distinct was her hair. It had such a striking red hue, he didn't know how he could have missed her.

"Small dark roast."

"Sure," Clint said, quick to key it in. "Do you want room for cream or anything?" he ventured. Normally he appreciated the no-nonsense customers, but he found himself wishing she had more to say. When she came in the store, Clint hadn't heard her. He hadn't _seen_ her. That wasn't something that happened, not- well, ever.

"No." She set cash on the counter. "Keep the change."

"Oh- are you sure?" He asked. She only gave a short nod. "Thank you," he smiled but she'd already dismissed him, eyes focused elsewhere. Clint added the money to the register and glanced her way again. He wondered who she was. Would it be weird to ask? Sometimes he got names when there were more customers to help keep track, but it wasn't a policy or anything. Not at Expresso anyway; other places, maybe. Oh hell, why not. "Could I get your name?" he asked, as casually as he could.

Her eyes snapped sharply back to his, and he suddenly regretted the question. Now there was no doubt in his mind that she was going to answer with something like '_What about that last guy? You didn't ask that last guy for his name_,' or '_You realize there's nobody here, right? Give me my coffee so I can throw it in your face_,' or '_I'm a freaking ninja, I don't have time for this_,' or, more likely, just a plain '_No_.'

So she surprised him a little when, after her quick scrutiny, she relaxed and replied with a much calmer "Natalie."

Clint nodded, resisting the urge to smile at what he felt was a small victory. "Small dark roast, coming right up." He grabbed a coffee cup and jotted her name on the side before pouring the drink. He could feel her watching him, so he looked up to give her a quick grin before adding a lid to the cup and setting it on the counter. "Enjoy."

"Thank you."

Natalie took her coffee and walked to a small table near the window, shoes scraping lightly against the floor. She set her coffee down and gazed outside while her drink cooled. Clint made sure to not stare so blatantly, but with only a few other people in the café and no new ninja customers he did glance over more than once.

Maybe he was just sleep-deprived, and that was why he hadn't noticed her walk in. Yeah… no. He wanted that to be it, he really did, but it wasn't.

He was slipping, plain and simple. Hell, his sense of time had become so jumbled that he'd missed his own birthday, so why wouldn't other things that came naturally to him start to fade? He was normal now, or getting there. Normal people didn't offhandedly perceive everything around them. Sometimes normal people missed things, and it wasn't a big deal. Or it shouldn't be.

Why did this have to bother him so much?

When another customer arrived Clint was grateful. The guy could make a hundred lame 'it's _espresso_ not _expresso_' jokes and he wouldn't even mind.

* * *

Natalie returned the next day, and the day after that. It actually became a routine: on weekdays she would come in around the same time, order a small black coffee, sit by the window for a couple of hours, and then leave. Sometimes she brought a book or magazine.

She hadn't taken Clint by surprise since that first day, which eased his mind but didn't leave him any less curious about the new regular. He'd tried to do the small talk thing whenever she came in, but her responses were never longer than they needed to be.

Even so, he never got the impression that he may have annoyed her until his boss pulled him aside after she'd sat down one day. '_Quit the chatter, Carson,_' he'd said, using the surname Clint gave him when he started – he hadn't wanted to be a Barton anymore, not really – '_not everyone wants to hear it._'

The next time Natalie came in, he asked if she wanted her usual and nothing more. After the coffee was made she seemed to linger, raising a barely perceptible eyebrow like she was confused and even upset as to why Clint wasn't going out of his way to talk about the weather. It was the smallest gesture, but one that made him rethink his boss' directive. Did she actually like him talking at her, despite her short responses all the time?

She didn't give him any more time to figure that out before thanking him for the coffee and going to her usual table.

Well that was that, then. He stopped trying to talk to Natalie and put her from his mind. Plenty of other things to worry about anyway, like where to look for another cheap sublet for January and the fact that the holidays were only a couple of weeks away.

"Please," Clint said when he and Mr. Fuller were opening one morning.

"No, Carson. We've never been open on Christmas Day, and I'm not about to worry about it this year," his boss said gruffly, finishing the statement with a yawn.

"You won't be worrying about it though," Clint argued, working slowly to brew the first pot of the day. He knew he had a better chance of this while Fuller was still trying to wake up. "I will. It's not like I don't work alone a few days out of the week anyway, so what's the big deal?"

"Hmph, should be asking you the same. You never take a day off, and now you want to work Christmas? I can't afford holiday pay any more than I can afford overtime pay, kid."

"That's _fine_. Regular is fine. Just let me work."

Fuller sighed heavily and looked over at the coffee pot, which Clint just started. He frowned at it and looked back to Clint, irritated but tired. "Why do you want to so badly?"

"I need the money."

He seemed to be trying to decide whether that was true or not before finally shrugging. "Have it your way, then. Congratulations, Carson, you get to work Christmas. Now go sweep the floor."

"On it." Clint disappeared to grab a broom before his boss had the chance to change his mind.

Maybe it didn't matter. Truthfully, he really didn't know what to feel about Christmas this year. It was never a stand out holiday for him by any means, and as a child he'd even kind of hated it. Up until the time he and Barney fled the orphanage it was always their yearly reminder that everyone else was more loved, more fortunate, or both.

It was the circus and those small holiday celebrations that showed him that the entire month of December didn't have to entirely suck, but even then festivities were small and humble. He could partake if he chose to, or ignore it if he liked.

There was no ignoring it in Chicago. Maybe it was because he'd never experienced it in a big city, but holy hell, Christmas was stifling. The music and decorations were in every shop, there were wreathes on almost every door, every street had at least one string of lights; the list went on, and that was only part of the problem. The people were worse.

It wasn't anything or anyone in particular, as much as it was a collective stream of reminders. '_Of course you're invited, it's Christmas!_' a passing woman said on the phone one day, and '_what do you think we should get her?_' was the topic of conversation between two customers the next. '_Do you have any plans for the holidays?_' someone Clint was pouring coffee for asked, once.

Well, he did now, thank you very much, and when it came around he could just treat it like any other day, easy.

* * *

Or it would have been, if there was even a single customer.

Clint knew it would be a slow day. Honestly, he'd counted on it, and saved some smaller work tasks for himself to keep busy. By the afternoon not only was it all done, but he had cleaned _everything_, some things twice. He could only wipe down the counters and tables so many times, though. After triple-checking that everything was full and stocked, he allowed himself to slump against the counter.

No one had come in for morning coffee. No one was here for lunch. It kept feeling less like he was just working another day, and more like that thing he'd been trying to avoid: the one where he was spending Christmas alone.

Even the Chinese place across the street had closed for the day. Granted, that place was known to close here and there kind of randomly, but still. He directed his irritation towards the string of bulbs that hung across the top of Expresso's windows. He'd turned off the music, but he couldn't exactly take down the decorations.

...Then again, why not? Hell, he could do it from here; all it would take was a few well-aimed stir sticks. He started to consider this, then suddenly movement outside beyond the window and decorations caught his eye.

He knew that jacket; that hair. Clint straightened from his slouch immediately. What was she doing, wandering the street on Christmas Day? It really did seem like wandering. She usually walked quickly, steps full of intent or purpose. Outside she was almost drifting, though whether it was more leisurely or lost he couldn't say.

Then her eyes met his through the distance and glass, and narrowed. The familiar steadfastness of her stride returned, taking her to Expresso's door.

What had he done? He didn't get much time to think about this before she reached the counter. "The usual?" he asked cautiously.

"Is there a day you don't work?" Natalie asked, taking him by surprise. First of all, she had never started a conversation with him, ever, and second – why did he feel like she was mad at him?

"Uh, yeah, like last…" Saturday, Sunday? Wait, was it last one or was it the one before that? Crap, this pause wasn't making him look good, "Sunday," he finished decisively.

She didn't respond right away, just stared, which made Clint shuffle awkwardly. "So… coffee?"

The question snapped her out of whatever she'd been thinking, and her glare softened. "Yes," she said slowly, "thank you."

Clint smiled before finding her usual dark roast and got it brewing. He tried to think of something else to say now that Natalie might actually be receptive to conversation, but she actually beat him to it.

"Why?"

Clint glanced back at her, and didn't need to ask what she was talking about. He returned to the coffee maker and shrugged. "Didn't want to stay at my apartment," he answered honestly.

She nodded slowly, like she understood. "Me neither." He looked up. Maybe she did.

"So you figured to go on a casual stroll to your favorite misspelled coffee place, huh?" he grinned a bit.

The corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. "Something like that."

Again Clint wondered about what to say next, and again Natalie saved him the effort. "Have you had many customers?" she seemed curious.

"Well," he said, a bit awkwardly as he grabbed a cup and jotted her name on the side, "one, now."

"You're serious."

"Yeah," he laughed it off, "could probably close up right now and nobody would care. My boss wouldn't," he said, wondering if being open today without any customers was actually losing them money. Maybe. Probably?

"Do it, then."

"Huh?"

"Close the store."

"Oh," he blinked. "Well if you're going to stay, I don't want to kick you out. Or go to my apartment, really." He poured her a fresh cup when the brewing was finished.

"You don't have to," she said simply as she started to reach for her money.

"On the house," Clint said quickly, before she could finish. She paused, then continued to get out her money anyway, laying the two crisp bills on the counter. Clint frowned as he set down her cup. "I'm serious."

"Then it's for yours," she picked up the coffee. "Thanks."

Clint decided it was probably best not to argue. He almost frowned. Now that she had her coffee, there was no reason for her to stay at the counter and chat with him anymore. With the way she paused for a second too long he wondered if she was thinking the same thing, but then she was gone to her table.

He looked down at the money for a few moments before ringing up another small coffee, adding it to the register, and picking up another cup. On a whim he scrawled his own name across it before pouring. He left the cup on the counter as he walked around to the front door, locked it, and flipped the sign to 'Closed.' When he caught Natalie's eyes, they threatened a smile.

"You might have a point," Clint admitted, smiling at her and going to the front counter from the customer side to exchange his nametag for the coffee. No one was around, and he doubted anyone was coming. He grabbed a couple of cream packets and mixed them into his coffee before going over to Natalie, slowing his steps a little as he neared her table but she just gave a half-shrug, encouraging him to take the empty seat across hers.

"Not going to compete with the theaters after all?" she asked lightly. She'd taken the cap off of her cup and was watching the steam as it cooled.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he had no idea what she was talking about. It must have showed.

"Movie theaters are open Christmas Day," she explained, looking at him dubiously.

"Really?" Maybe he should have worked at one of those. "Did you see a movie?" he wondered.

"No," Natalie raised an eyebrow.

"It's just, you were walking around," Clint pointed out, feeling the need to defend his question, and the fact that it didn't come from completely nowhere.

"Ah," she said, folding her arms and gazing out the window, as she usually did. "I have the day off."

"Where do you work?" Considering her Expresso schedule, it probably wasn't a typical nine-to-five thing.

"I work for a private contractor," she replied, "the hours can be a little odd."

"Not odd enough to keep a pretty solid coffee routine."

Then Natalie smiled. It was a small smile, and Clint swore he saw a hint of irony in it, but only for a short instant which made him wonder if he'd just imagined it. "A caffeine schedule isn't one to be trifled with," she looked at her cup and lifted it delicately. "Did you at least get yourself a gift?" she asked before she brought it to her lips and took a small sip.

It took him a second to realize she was back on the Christmas thing, and he raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't that be a little…" he faltered at the way she looked at him now, just daring him to finish that thought, "…y'know…" damnit Clint, no, just quit talking, "…lame?" Oh, yeah. Nailed it, definitely.

Natalie crossed one arm over the other as she took another long drink of coffee. Clint shrugged awkwardly.

"It's whatever you want it to be," she said once she'd set down her coffee. "Is this your first Christmas like this?" she asked, keeping her question vague and easy. He was grateful.

"Yeah."

"It's not mine." As Natalie spoke, Clint started seeing snowflakes outside from the corner of his eye. "Sometimes you just have to figure out what works and go with it." She looked out the window at the snow as it began to fall. Her expression relaxed into a smile – a genuine smile – as she leaned back in her seat.

Clint stared for maybe a second longer than he should have and then quickly picked up his coffee to take a long drink. He still didn't get it, but clearly she'd found something that worked for her. Maybe he'd get to a point where he liked Christmas, too. Not that this one wasn't turning out all right.

"So. What did you get yourself this year?" he had to ask.

She glanced back at him contemplatively, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to answer. Then she smiled again, this one with subtle amusement.

"A Pink CD."

"Oh," Clint said after a beat, "that's cool."

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Naahhh."

Natalie just chuckled and took another drink; Clint did the same. They settled into a comfortable silence, watching the snow fall for a while longer and interrupting with light conversation until dusk. On December twenty-sixth, Clint bought arrows.

* * *

After that day, he had no problems talking to Natalie. They chatted a bit whenever she came in to order, and he started offering to brew her fresh coffee so they could talk a bit more. By the end of the first week of January he was even spending his breaks with her at her table like they had on Christmas.

Their conversations were actually a lot like they had been that first day, sans the more personal topics. Clint never brought up anything like history or family because if he tried to learn any more about her in that regard, he'd be expected to do some talking too, which he wanted to avoid. He was quite all right with keeping that locked up, and Natalie let him. Probably because from the way she talked Clint was almost certain she had some dirty laundry of her own, but that was fine with him. Better than fine, really; they understood each other. So they talked, listened, drank coffee, and became friends. It was all pretty great.

Not that they didn't learn anything about each other. Clint, for example, learned that she did a lot of traveling for work (which was the reason she was in Chicago in the first place), enjoyed dance (ballet in particular), and that the 'Pink' she'd referred to was not the actual color but a pop singer who went by that name (this he discovered on his own).

As for Natalie, well, after implying that Clint ought to pursue something other than serving coffee in a bad neighborhood she learned that Clint didn't have a high school education. Okay, so maybe that one was kind of personal. Actually what he told her was that he dropped out of high school, which might be misleading in that it implied he'd ever gone, but it didn't matter. It wasn't something he'd minded sharing, and she didn't press for any more than that.

All in all it was nice finally getting to know Natalie as something other than 'the ninja customer,' and it even made him look forward to opening the café with Fuller rather than on his own, because of the lunch break.

This morning was different, though. The door was locked, which was kind of strange – Fuller was usually here earlier – but he just yawned and fished out his keys. As soon as he stepped inside, the door to the back room opened to reveal not his boss, but a man with a black beanie cap and a short beard. Clint snapped awake and his body naturally shifted to a more defensive stance.

"You don't work here." It didn't look like he was carrying anything, weapons, money or otherwise, but who could say what that tracksuit could conceal?

"No, seriously?" The man rolled his eyes and started walking past him to the door, just before Fuller emerged from the back room.

"Carson, it's fine." He looked more awake this morning too, rigid lines set on his face as he watched the stranger leave.

Once he was gone, Clint turned back to look at his boss. "Okay, what was _that_ about?"

"Nothing. He was a friend, now take care of the tables," he said, in a tone that completely shut down the topic. Or, intended to.

"I'd buy a cup of our coffee before I'd buy that crap," Clint put bluntly.

"Leave it alone and do your job, if you want to keep it," the man nearly growled. That shut Clint right up. He wouldn't honestly fire him, would he? The guy only had three employees. Clint worked the most. Yeah, it was totally a bluff. "Don't come in tomorrow," Fuller went on, causing Clint to suddenly panic, "I'm closing it down for the day," and now he was just confused. "I need a break. You're about due for one, too," he added critically, "but that's tomorrow, so get to work." This time he returned to the back room, before Clint could protest again.

He needed a break? Bullshit, you didn't just close down a business on almost no notice because you wanted a break. Well, maybe you did if you were that restaurant across the street, but Clint had no idea how that place worked so it didn't count. Seriously, if his surprise day off didn't have anything to do with the surprise tracksuit guy he'd eat his bow.

Clint didn't ask any more questions, though. The looks he gave him when he thought he might bring it up again weren't all that friendly.

He did, however, bring it up with the regulars that stopped by. It was only fair. Natalie would probably ask more about it than the other two, so when her coffee visit rolled around, Clint was grateful that the boss was busy in the back.

"So you're going to have to find a different place for your fix tomorrow," he said while he wrote an abbreviated '_Nat_.' on her cup this time.

"Hm?" She looked more suspicious than curious.

"Hey, don't look at me," he held a hand up, "came straight from the top today, we're closed down tomorrow."

She was quiet for a moment, maybe just figuring out that he was serious before asking, "Why?"

"You've got me. To be honest it's kind of weird. I mean there was this guy this morning…" he trailed off, glancing over his shoulder.

"What guy?" Natalie was quick to ask, in a slightly lower voice to match Clint's.

"The boss was talking to someone in the back before I got here; saw him leave. I don't know _how_ it's related," he added quickly, and a little self-consciously at that – for something that was starting to sound stupid when he talked about it aloud, she was pretty tuned in – "or even if it is, I just have this feeling?"

Natalie hummed. "Did he look out of place, or something? Could be just a friend in town."

Clint snorted. "Yeah, that's what the boss said. Guess out of place is one way to put it. I mean, he had this whole biker gang look but had a tracksuit, and- do you know him?" he asked in disbelief, because he _swore_ he caught a flash of recognition there.

Natalie blinked, before she crossed her arms coolly. "Do I know people who have worn tracksuits before?"

"Point taken," Clint said, now second-guessing what he thought he saw. Again. He did that a lot with her. "Well anyway," he continued, but then heard the door swing open behind him, "your coffee should be ready now," and it was. Though Fuller wasn't paying attention to him as he poured the cup, he didn't want to get caught talking about the guy from earlier. Natalie got it – of course she did, she was great – and thanked him for the coffee before sitting down.

Once seated, she looked at him from across the café and gestured him over. Clint laughed a little.

"You should know by now that I always take my breaks when you get in," He said five minutes later when he'd joined her at her table with coffee and a half-sandwich. "Really, just natural at this point," he took a large drink.

"You should quit."

At once his hand flew to his mouth, struggling to keep the coffee in before he managed to swallow it down and took a large breath.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, but she didn't repeat her question, just continued to stare at him intently. "Because of the closing thing? It's not, I mean, it's not something to put in a two weeks' notice over," he struggled over his words, mostly because he was trying to figure out the reasoning that led her to that conclusion just from their conversation.

"It's not that, exactly," she continued, "more, it's what I've been noticing. You… really don't seem happy here," she said almost hesitantly, which was a new thing for her, at least around him. What was she even talking about, and more importantly, why was she being all weird all of a sudden?

Clint rubbed the back of his neck, focusing on the one he could maybe make sense of. He didn't hate his job here. He didn't exactly love it, but that was just it, it was fine. If he seemed like he was in low spirits today, that was probably just because of the forced day off thing and not knowing what to do and- ah. Okay… that made more sense. Damnit. What happened to them not talking about these things?

"Yeah, that's not the job, that's life. Here, some other place; it doesn't make any difference because it wouldn't _be_ any different. Not something I try to think about, but thanks for going ahead and pointing it out. Eye-opening, really." He crossed his arms. "I'm not like you, Nat. Drop out, remember? I can't get some fancy business job or pursue anything or make any difference if I do. I had my shot. I missed. It's over, and what I'm qualified for pretty much starts and ends with this." Some logical part of him knew she didn't deserve his lashing out like this, but whatever, he wasn't going to justify himself.

Natalie's hesitance had vanished, replaced by a calm glare. "If that's how you really feel, then you're an idiot." After that he got a pit in his stomach, half-expecting her to leave. He only realized how grateful he was when she didn't, and instead eased up on her glaring to turn contemplative.

"Do I need to point out that I didn't say anything about pursuing something bigger, or?"

"…I guess I might have a thing or two pent up," Clint relented, moving his hands to his coffee cup and idly rotating it between his fingers.

Thankfully, Natalie spared him the '_You think?_' and leaned forward, crossing her arms on the edge of the table. "It's not too late, you know. Whatever happened with you… in high school," she added. "It doesn't have to be a one-time thing. If it's qualifications you're worried about, there are tests. They might be difficult, but-"

"-I'm not interested?" he finished wryly.

She shrugged. "Someday you could be. Situations change." She took a sip of coffee. Neither of them spoke for a bit, and then, "you really should quit, Clint." He looked up. He didn't know why she was so intent on this still, but she had his attention. "Whatever you might think, a change of scenery could be good for you. Besides, don't you think a movie theater is more your style?" She asked with a small smile, and a dead giveaway that she had most definitely read his mind on Christmas.

"Maybe," he said thoughtfully. "I'll consider it, but be honest: you just want movie dates instead of coffee dates, don't you."

"I do enjoy the cinema."

He laughed, she grinned, and they relaxed back into their typical style of conversation through the duration of Clint's break.

When his shift was done, he saw Fuller pull aside his replacement to talk, no doubt to tell him not to come in tomorrow. Clint watched from the outside window for just a moment, before shaking his head and starting down the street on his usual route. It wasn't his business. What was his business was figuring out how much of the day tomorrow he could sleep away, and what else he could do to fill the rest of it.

* * *

The next time Clint showed up for work, Fuller had left him a note explaining he wasn't going to be there until the evening so the morning shift was Clint's. He was fine with that, though they didn't draw too many customers. It wasn't exactly surprising considering yesterday's one-off, but he didn't mind. Instead he actually smiled a bit, wondering if he could get away with taking an impromptu lunch break since there were no current customers and his favorite time was approaching.

Five minutes. Maybe he'd brew a new pot now?

Three minutes. Yeah, he'd do that now.

About that time. Granted, her schedule wasn't dead set. No other customers yet, so lunch was still on the table. Heh, lunch, table.

Five past. He got a sinking feeling.

Seven past. Had something happened? Was she okay?

Fifteen past. She wasn't coming.

His shift ended. Nothing.

Natalie hadn't shown up the following day either, or the following week. She was gone.

* * *

February turned into March, and Clint had fallen back into the same funk he had at the start of the job. He missed her. She was always going to move on because of her travel job – just another thing they both knew and didn't talk about – but he didn't think she'd just up and leave without saying anything. Out of paranoia because _oh god what if,_ he checked the obits the first week, always relieved when he didn't see her name, and then dejected all over again because yes, up and leaving without saying anything was exactly what she'd done.

So maybe they'd only known each other for a couple of months, but he thought… no, he _knew_ that they were closer than that, that it hadn't all been one sided. They were friends. She was just a crummy one.

"Shit," Fuller uttered, snapping Clint out of his thoughts. He looked over at him and followed his gaze to the front doors, just before they opened to two Tracksuits. The one who appeared that morning last month was there – Clint recognized him, standing at the flank of a taller, broader man with a bald head and moustache. Head Tracksuit ignored him, looking straight to his boss.

"We talk now, bro."

"Carson, watch the register," Fuller said quickly, taking the men to the back room with him. The door slammed shut.

"Like hell," Clint muttered under his breath, giving the café a quick glance before leaving the register and creeping silently to the door, keeping still and listening as hard as he could.

"…_talked about this-"_

"_No use, bro, never have any business anyway bro. You sell us store now."_

Clint's eyes narrowed critically. Sell the store? Were they coercing him? What-

"Hello?"

Shit!

"Hey," Clint greeted the customer after frantically getting back to the register. "Sorry about that, checking on the, uh, beans, what can I get you?"

The woman looked at him like he wasn't right in the head, and he probably wasn't, but seriously lady just hurry up and order and try to work on that whole timing thing because right now yours really sucks, also please just order to go.

"Could I get a caramel macchiato, to go?"

Thank you! Okay, redeemed, a little. "Coming right up," he promised, and had her drink ready in record time. "Have a nice day," he nodded.

"Thanks, you too," she said distractedly while putting her gloves back on, not something that took long at all, but each fraction of a second was almost too agonizing for Clint to stand. When she finally did leave Clint stepped away from the counter again, half a mind to race back to the door, but then he heard it click open and snapped back to the register in an instant. Crap.

There were no words spoken when the men returned to the lobby, and with their business apparently done, the Tracksuits wasted no time in vacating. Clint watched them through the glass, and as soon as they were gone, rounded on his boss.

"Did you sell the café?" Clint demanded.

Fuller's eyes widened. "You-"

"Did you sell Expresso," he repeated tersely, balling his fists.

Fuller met his anger with an uncomfortable silence on his part, before his eyes hardened and he stood tall and unapologetic. "Yes, I did. It was a better deal. This neighborhood's always been trouble, anyway. Sorry, Carson, this is our last day. I'll still pay you through the week, but it's time to find a new-"

Clint didn't hear the rest as he swung over the front counter and sprinted out the door. He had the general direction, and thankfully, they hadn't gotten very far and stuck out like a sore thumb. As soon as he saw them ahead they disappeared around a corner, and Clint sprinted to catch up, stopping at the base of the alleyway where he saw the two Tracksuits, about to turn again.

"Hey, you!" He called to halt them. They stopped and turned, bemused, giving Clint the opportunity to jog up and start catching his breath.

"Is coffee bro, bro," the one with the beanie pointed out.

"You're part of a gang, right?" Clint barreled on, breathing a little more heavily than he usually would after a short sprint. He felt out of shape.

"Seriously, bro?"

"You looking for fight?"

"Well seeing as you just put me out of a job," he straightened his shoulders and stood a little taller, looking Head Tracksuit straight in the eyes, "no. I'm looking for work."

* * *

Next chapter:

_None of this was a part of any plan; all he could do was to improvise, and hope it made sense._


	4. Lookout

Or maybe every chapter will be a long chapter. Gosh. Anyway I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter! Nat isn't in this one, but there are some things that that make her presence in the last chapter make a little more sense (not to Clint, though; never to Clint). She'll turn up again sooner rather than later, and it'll be kind of a big deal when she does. Granted, that could probably be said about most of her chapters. In the meantime, Clint makes bad decisions.

(Happy New Year's Eve!)

* * *

"What you want from us, bro?" Head Tracksuit asked, with his broken English and an accent. Russian, maybe.

"A job, duh," he thought he'd made that clear enough, but apparently not. "Let me join your Tracksuit Mafia, or whatever."

"Why you think we want you?" he snorted.

"Well let's see, maybe because I saw you last month," he jabbed a finger at the tracksuit with the beanie, "and didn't say anything about what you were up to even though I could have? And I know what you're doing now," he added, even though he definitely did not. None of this was a part of any plan; all he could do was to improvise, and hope it made sense.

"You don't know anything, bro," he replied, effectively cutting off Clint's argument, "and buying shop is legal. Nothing to do about it."

Fine, a different angle then: "Look, we both know that I'm out of a job. I think it's stupid that Fuller gave into you guys so easily but he was weak, not the kind of guy I liked working for. Pay was shit too, so whatever operation you've got going on I want in on it. The more the merrier, right?"

Head Tracksuit crossed his arms and looked at him, glancing to Beanie and saying something in Russian. Their conversation dragged on but Clint stood his ground, looking at them with determination and willing them to just go for it. Who couldn't use another grunt?

Finally they stopped talking, and Head Tracksuit turned to him once more.

"We see, bro, we see. Test first – see if good fit?" He seemed amused. "Two days, you meet us here. No weapons. No cops. Ten o'clock. Understand?"

"Understand," he affirmed.

Then they left. Clint left too. He took the long way to the bus stop, avoiding Expresso entirely. Instead he returned to his apartment, locked himself inside and sat down against the wall.

There weren't any chairs. Truthfully there wasn't much of anything, not that there'd be space if there was. 'Studio apartment' was just everyone's fancy way of saying 'a room and a bathroom.' Well okay, the half-kitchen thing could count; that was all right. It was the only part of the room that filled the empty space without looking as sad as the sleeping bag or his dirty clothes pile and duffel bag in the corner.

Not a very exciting place, but nothing he wasn't used to. Month by month he'd just found the cheapest sub-lease and paid cash up front. Everything was good. Unless he couldn't come up with the cash to do it again, being out of a job now and all. If the whole tracksuit thing worked out he'd have less to worry about.

Kind of hard to have a plan for getting them to let him join up when he had no idea what their 'test' was, but hopefully it'd be something he could work with. If not, well, like everything else he'd go from there. Just had to try not to worry about it, show up in two days at ten, and be ready for anything.

* * *

Good thing he was too, because he got jumped. He had a single warning in the form of a '_hey bro!_' behind him, and then he was ducking under the swing of a tracksuit-sleeved arm.

A brief look to tell him that this wasn't Head Tracksuit or Beanie was all he managed before the clatter of a sprint behind him made him turn his head and yeah, there was another tracksuit thug sure to join them in just a second. Plenty of time.

Thug 1 drew his fist back for another punch. No time for a full swing, so as Clint rose from his duck he shoved out an elbow to stagger the man and continued that momentum into a pivot just in time to counter Thug 2.

No weapons, no cops. God, he felt like an idiot. Yeah he'd gone through some different possibilities of their meeting, but if they wanted to go the straight up assault route then why didn't they just throw punches the other day? Wait – 10 o'clock… yeah, that was it. People were around back then; right now, not so much. Okay, now he _really_ felt like an idiot. Well the joke was on them, he didn't have any money on him besides bus fare – and more importantly, he knew what he was doing.

Thug 2, with his running start, was throwing everything into his punch as he aimed for his face. Clint may be rusty, but this guy was easy. Before the hit could land Clint moved left, pressing his back against the wall of the narrow alley as he dodged outside of Thug 2's fist. The man staggered forward in a near-fall.

"Let me help you with that," Clint pushed from his wall and kicked out at Thug 2's back, effectively sending him reeling to the ground just in time for Thug 1 to make another move.

It was perfect really; now Clint had the fight set up just how he liked, getting them both on one side and dealing with them in alternation. Who was the idiot now?

Okay, maybe him still, because he caught himself wishing they'd brought another thug. Then he considered this, and decided it was reasonable; who could blame him anyway? Schooling these guys was both satisfying _and_ fun, two things he hadn't experienced in a long time.

Thug 1 seemed to hesitate, so Clint spread out his arms and gave him his best grin. That prompted the him straight into action through a scowl and a right hook. This time Clint blocked, throwing his left wrist against the thug's right and using the new opening to punch him in the face (for fun) and immediately follow up with another strike to his stomach (for results).

Thug 1 gasped and crumpled, and Thug 2 was up again. Clint looked at him expectantly.

"Enough," the voice made the thug lower his guard and look over Clint's shoulder. Clint turned with his back near the wall again so he didn't have to take his eyes off the thugs as he peered down the alley, and there was Head Tracksuit coming their way. Plus two. Clint put up his fists guardedly, but the man just shook his head.

"Said enough, bro. Congratulations, you pass test."

"Uh, excuse me?" Maybe a potential four against one situation wasn't the best time to run his mouth, but he couldn't help it. "I showed up here just like you wanted, you send your thugs to try to mug me, and then when it's obvious I'm going to win it's suddenly '_you pass_'? You full of shit, _bro_."

The only real response he got was a glare from Thug 2; Head Tracksuit looked unconcerned. "You fight back good enough, you join; you don't, we beat you up. Win-win, bro."

"Yeah, for you," he said bitterly.

"You too. You good enough. You going to join or fight?"

"Well if those are my options," Clint muttered, releasing his clenched up fists as he lowered his guard. "Fine. It's like I said before, I want to join."

"Good," Head Tracksuit said, while one of his lackeys went to help Thug 2 get Thug 1 on his feet. Once the man was able to stand and breathe a little better, Head Tracksuit beckoned them along, turning to Clint as well. "You follow."

"We doing orientation?" Clint wondered. "Do I get to see the inner-workings? Do I get a tracksuit," he added suddenly, "because that seems crucial."

"Just follow," he said shortly.

Figuring it'd be better not to piss off the new boss, he shoved his hands in his pockets and followed them in silence, trying not to look too smug about Thug 1 and his inevitable black eye as the man kept shooting glares.

They didn't have to go too far to reach an unmarked building where Head Tracksuit turned to him and the two thugs, telling them to stand watch while he and his lackeys went inside.

"So," Clint said casually after the first five minutes, "this happen often?"

The two just glared again and went back to being content to keep quiet and keep watch. Clint sighed, but supposed he was too.

He did get in, after all. That would have to do for now. He'd play by their rules and work his way up. As soon as he had something worth it – details of their operation, evidence of violence, a location – he'd package it nice and pretty and anonymous for the police. Then they could take them down. No more shady business, no more stabbing in the streets, no more whatever the hell else they were up to that Clint both aspired and dreaded to find out.

Getting to punch the guy he was now doing lookout duty with had been great, and he wished he could just do more of that and call it a day, but it wouldn't help anything. He didn't know how many people were involved in the gang, and even if he did it would almost certainly be too many for Clint to handle on his own in a head-on fight. Besides, the last time he tried…

He wanted these guys taken care of, he couldn't help it. This time he'd try it from the inside. It was going to suck, but if he could do this, maybe it would actually make a difference for the better.

* * *

One of the big things Clint had been worried about when he started working for a gang was what he'd be expected to do. The good news on that front was that, after a week now, he hadn't had to do anything to hurt or threaten anyone because all they had him doing was the same sort of lookout thing from the first day, plus random errands. The flip side of that was that he wasn't making any headway whatsoever. He still didn't know what they were exactly about, he still had no idea if they even had a secret base like the one he'd pictured in his head, and he _still_ didn't have a tracksuit.

He got it, he really did; he was new, they didn't trust him yet, a tracksuit would just make him stick out when he was supposed to be on watch; etc. etc. Didn't make it less frustrating. It was hard to be patient when you were working for the bad guys and had no idea when or even if it would pay off.

After that first day, they had him acting as the lookout alone. It would have been perfect, except for the fact that whatever they were up to in their various meeting locations they were up to it in Russian, something he learned the first time he'd tried to sneak a listen. Since then he stuck to the post they left him in, dutifully keeping watch just as he was now.

What made this night more relevant than the others was that there was actually an incident. Down the otherwise empty street of tonight's random Russian meeting, a 30-something man appeared with his hands tucked in the pockets of his light jacket. The guy's movements alone were a red flag. Maybe it meant nothing to the untrained eye, but what Clint saw was a person putting effort into appearing casual. The coat the guy wore was big and a little billowy, so it was hard to make out of he was concealing anything or not. It wasn't enough, but then his eyes kept subtly flashing to the building Clint was leaning against, and then Clint himself when he was close enough to see him and yeah, that was more than enough.

He whistled a casual but loud signal to the Ride of the Valkyries tune, then got out of there before the coat guy could spot him.

Twenty minutes later at the rendezvous point Head Tracksuit, aka Ivan, showed up with a few others Clint never cared to learn the names of, and nodded to him.

"Good work."

"So he was a cop or something, then?" Clint asked.

"Or something," the tracksuit formerly known as Beanie (he wasn't wearing one now) told him while Ivan opened a bag he hadn't been carrying before and pulled out a small wad of bills, handing it to Clint.

"What's this?" he asked suspiciously, wondering where the bag came from, if it was stolen, who they were just meeting with, how they finished said meeting after it was interrupted with suspicious coat guy, and more.

"Your cut," Ivan said, raising an eyebrow. Clint supposed a real thug, like he was supposed to be, would have just snatched any offered money with no questions. He did that now.

"It's more than last time," Clint just shrugged to justify his own caution.

"You actually useful this time, bro," Ivan laughed, as well as the others. Clint rolled his eyes but did grin a little at the money. Shit, this was more than he made in two weeks at Expresso, at least. Looks like rent wouldn't be a problem. Then suddenly he was hit with a twinge of guilt and quickly shoved the money away to his pocket. Out of sight, out of mind for now. Besides, Ivan was already handing him something else – a slip of paper with an address he'd jotted down, where he expected Clint to show up next as usual.

"Tomorrow, nine."

"Do they card at the door?" Clint asked as he looked down at the location, more specifically the word 'bar' tagged on to the end of the first line. Some bars did, some didn't; he figured he'd ask just in case they did and it got awkward, not that it wasn't starting to right now with the looks they were giving hi. He cleared his throat. "I, uh, don't have a fake."

Or a real, for that matter.

"You underage, bro?" Ex-Beanie asked with a laugh.

"Yeah…"

At least they were more amused than they were irritated. They switched to a few lines of back and forth Russian, then Ivan grabbed the piece of paper back from him. "Forget that. Be here instead tomorrow; two."

"I can do that. You going to tell me what's up this time?"

"We get someone. Just be here."

"You're always so helpful. Okay. See you tomorrow, I guess."

But he didn't. Instead there was some other, non-tracksuit wearing guy with a buzz cut and trimmed beard smoking a cigarette. He looked around Clint's age, maybe a few years older. Before he could wonder whether or not the guy was just on a badly timed smoke break, he noticed Clint and spoke.

"Carson, right?"

"Just Clint," he corrected quickly.

"Just Jim for me, then." He took one last drag of the cigarette then flicked it to the ground. "Ready to go?"

"Uh, sure… go where, exactly? Is Ivan coming?" Clint watched his eyes for any trace of confusion, just in case.

There wasn't any; he just chuckled. "Tracksuit Vampires don't tell you anything either, huh?" He turned and started walking. Clint followed.

"Not really, I've mostly been doing lookout for Ivan and some other guys, all Russian. Didn't know there was anyone else who wasn't," he said, in a way that would hopefully prompt more information.

"Oh, there's a bunch of us. Everyone new and shit, especially since… anyway, you get me because I'm the youngest. Besides you now," he smirked, "and I'm getting you a fake. Well, you still gotta pay, but I know where to go."

"A fake… sorry, what?" Clint had focused more on the first part. Especially since what? Why were they building up numbers? If they had something big planned...

"ID," Jim replied, glancing over. "What are you, twenty? And you seriously haven't had one?"

"Nineteen… I never actually paid for anything," he said, which got Jim to look a little impressed while still being technically true. "Gotta say, I'm surprised you need one," Clint continued to keep the conversation going. Right now, it looked like Jim was his best bet to learn anything about the organization they both worked for.

Jim chuckled. "It's the beard, right? Not for much longer anyway; twenty-one in two months. Had my fake since sixteen," he added proudly.

"And it worked?" Clint asked in awe, playing to his ego.

"Yeah. I mean, usually. Flawless since this happened," he grinned, rubbing his beard.

"Guess it would be," Clint laughed. "So, where are we going for this thing?"

"I know a guy. Works at a tattoo place, but does pretty authentic fakes on the side. We'll just pop in the back, take your picture, and he'll have it ready in a few days. You can tell him what to put down on it too, and what state; he does a couple different ones. You need to get one out of state, though – harder for people to check."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Damn. He may not have as much time as he thought, or opportunity. "So you were saying there are other people who aren't Russian?"

"Yep," he replied easily enough. "Tracksuits optional."

"How do you know? Is there like a secret poker night at the base that everyone's invited to but me?"

"Holy shit," Jim started laughing, "you're good. I mean shit, that's exactly what happens, no joke. Don't play with the Russians though, they'll clean you out," he warned. "And don't worry. I've been going since last month, and new guys keep showing up. Just need to be around for a while first."

"Are there that many new people?" he asked, edging back to the topic from earlier. "I mean, everyone I've worked with speaks Russian. I thought I was some extra."

"You and like half of us, then." He didn't volunteer anything more this time. Clint didn't know anywhere to go from here but the direct route.

"What happened to get them into recruiting mode? You mentioned something," he said, as casually interested as possible.

"I did?" Jim frowned. "Well, kind of. It's just rumors." He seemed to hesitate, just a bit, and as much as Clint wanted to (and almost did) ask him what they were right away he kept silent, banking on Jim to fill the void himself.

"One of the guys actually speaks Russian; overheard a few things." He didn't disappoint. "Guess there was this deal that was supposed to go down a couple months ago? With some other guy from Russia, like a weapons dealer, or something to do with weapons. Anyway the guy never showed, and our side's been down a chunk of members since then. Never mentioned any numbers, but everyone's been throwing them around."

"So what, the deal went south and…?"

"No," he said a little impatiently, shaking his head. "There wasn't any deal. The guy never showed because he was dead."

"Just like everyone else who was supposed to be involved in that deal." Clint frowned in thought.

"Yep. Guess so." Jim paused. "Probably shouldn't have told you that. Not reconsidering joining, are you?" he looked conflicted. Clint didn't need him thinking too much on what he'd revealed, though, much less regretting it.

"You kidding? You're taking me to get a fake ID. Always wanted one of those things. So, how authentic we talking here?"

That was a subject Jim happily went along with, and while they talked, Clint's mind wandered. So they weren't building up for anything big, but replacing what they'd already lost. That, and they'd tried getting weapons. Obviously he was hearing this all fourth or fifth hand at best, but the very basic truth of it spelled recent misfortune for the Tracksuits, and he was good with that. He'd do his part, too.

Another two weeks passed, and over the course of it Clint worked with a few more people and his tasks got a little more involved. He was still primarily a lookout, but they started sending him as extra silent muscle while new tracksuits collected 'protection' fees and threatened people. Good people, being exploited because the tracksuits wanted to expand their territory. There wasn't any overarching scheme from what Clint gathered; just natural greed and exploitation, and people who weren't in situations to fight it or too afraid to try. They'd all probably heard, like Clint had, of what happened to people that did.

On the opposite side of that, Clint was starting to work more closely with some other newer people, Jim included, actually making minor friends in some of them. It made being a part of gang get to become more enjoyable – when they weren't ruining people's lives.

The ugly facts just kept coming back, making Clint feels as guilty and conflicted as ever. He wanted to just quit, to opt out of dealing with this whole mess he got himself involved in, but that would make everything he'd done so far mean nothing. Hell, worse than that, because he'd contributed the collective awful that it all was.

After Clint's fourth week, and another round of 'protection' fees collected, Ivan gave each of them their cuts once they got back to the street. As always, Clint took his and shoved it in his pocket, leaving him with a nagging urge to wash his hands after.

"Hope you ready to lose it," Ivan said.

"Why?" Clint turned and narrowed his eyes lightly. "Not going to try to mug me again on our one-month, are you?" he shifted his look from Ivan to the guy he could only ever think of as Thug 2, who simply rolled his eyes.

"Tonight, no," Ivan responded. "You play poker?"

Poker night. He was invited to poker night. Finally! Shit, he was anxious now though. If they really had a base, if he was really going to it, then all of this could be over.

It should make him happy, not torn, damnit.

While they walked Clint found himself taking special note of every path they crossed and every keen detail along the way. It was hardly necessary because it was all so familiar, but he expected that to change soon through a different route or a new path; something that diverged from what he was used to. It only made since, seeing he'd never been to where they were going before.

And yet as they kept walking Clint began to find things more recognizable, not less. Then they turned down the most familiar street of all. Clint's eyes flashed to the large sign, the misspelled label of the coffee shop now a flush of black paint.

Clint was vaguely aware of the amused glances cast his way but he couldn't help the way his mouth hung open as they walked down the street, stopping to turn and face the restaurant with the Chinese name that he used to see on a daily basis from behind a coffee counter.

"Oh you are kidding me."

The others laughed while Ivan continued ahead, paying no attention to the 'closed' sign as he used a key to open the front door and let them in, leading them through the restaurant floor and through a back door. It led to stairs down with a locked door at the end, but Ivan opened that one too, revealing a short hallway. The layout of doors here implied some kind of underground complex, but they bypassed most of them to get to one on the end, and then there was a large room with card tables and tracksuits abound.

"Yo, Clint!" Jim was there, waving him over from his table and making room.

Clint spent the night playing poker, coming out a little higher than he'd gone in with, and having some actual fun. He even looked forward to doing it again next week.

He was the worst.

Later that night, Clint was staring at the blank wall of his apartment. He had to quit. He had a location he could tip off the cops about now, and a bunch of other things he'd learned just by paying attention. It would be easy, but damnit, when had Clint gotten to the point where he didn't want to betray them? They weren't bad people, they were just… bad people that weren't complete pricks to _him_. Clint groaned and let his head fall forward against his knees. Wasn't that the truth of it.

He'd do it, he had to. Just, maybe not right away tomorrow.

* * *

Five days later, though, and he still hadn't done a damn thing. Ugh. Maybe he didn't join a gang under false pretenses; maybe he just joined a gang.

Seriously though, what was his goddamn hang up, _these were bad people_, but here he was going to another job with them. Maybe he could urge some of them to quit? The not-so-awful ones, like Jim? But then if it didn't work out it could throw in all sorts of complications, even a tip off that could stand to ruin him. What should he do? That was the question of the week, and it was far too frustrating.

Tonight's meeting place was a warehouse. Clint wasn't surprised to see six other guys there, mingling in the open space between stacks of crates, but it was jarring to see that they all held bats. It wasn't long before Jim handed Clint his.

"Who's on first?" He asked lightly, as joking was all he could do as he processed the more serious implications.

"There's a guy who's been giving us some trouble lately. This is a setup," Jim supplied, and behind him Ivan nodded.

"We discourage him. Cop or no."

Wait- Wait a minute- "_Cop_?" he asked incredulously, while everyone else, even Jim, looked at him like they didn't even get why this was a problem – why ganging up with bats against anyone was a problem at all.

"That why you here, bro, can fight. For us, this time."

"I don't want to get arrested," Clint clarified to make his protest more reasonable, even though absolutely none of these guys were.

In response to that they just started putting on ski masks, and joy, Clint got one of those too. "Okay, this makes it easier," he said grudgingly as he put his on. And it did. For the first time since his own recruitment, Clint was right here when they were deciding to get violent.

That was kind of the worst part.

He'd known all along what they were about, he'd just never been in a position to witness the actual violence. Apparently he needed to. Just knowing hadn't been enough, and that made him feel weak all over again. Well for whatever good it did, his mind was made up now without question. He pulled on his ski mask and cased the warehouse before slinking to the back.

Clint didn't know how they managed to arrange the setup or why they were so certain it would work but sure enough, ten minutes later and the target arrived, eyes going wide and hand going to a holster while yelling out something about being police and demanding that everyone freeze. Clint only caught a glimpse of his face before someone in front of him moved in the way, but it was the same guy he had called out a month ago. Maybe he could do something with the information Clint was ready to spill.

Better help him out first.

In a fight that could very soon become as bad as six against one, Clint didn't have time for the subtle approach and instead went with what seemed most effective: striking the tracksuit directly in front of him with the bat. The attack sent the man flailing forward, creating a mini-domino effect as he fell against one of the others and sent them both tripping to the floor.

Everything fell into chaos from there, and Clint quickly found his attention demanded by Ivan and the much closer Jim.

"What the _fuck_, bro!?" Jim spat at Clint, raising his bat and looked at him critically.

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it and felt himself shake his head. Then Jim attacked. He didn't know how to fight, just how to swing a bat, so it was in mere seconds that Clint had Jim knocked out.

He also had a second bat now. He threw it at one of the guys he saw trying to overwhelm the cop – who seemed to be doing all right, though must have lost his firearm – and turned to deal with his own situation: Ivan.

Ivan didn't waste any words and instead took a stride forward, striking out with his bat. Clint underestimated the larger man's reach, scrambling to get further back and raising his bat to sort-of block at the last moment. Ivan's bat clashed against his, nearly tearing it from Clint's grasp and certainly jerking his arm back abruptly.

Thankfully the pain only lasted for a second, so he moved his right hand to join his left at the grip. Then he advanced, bringing his bat forward in a feint to lure Ivan to attack again. It worked. Ivan delivered another heavy swing, but this time Clint was prepared. He retreated just outside of the reach of Ivan's bat, and as soon as it was clear jumped back forward to strike his head. Not with everything he had, definitely not; he didn't want anything more than to knock him out.

Clint may have underestimated him again, though, or at least the thickness of his skull, for Ivan was still standing. Beyond that, he recovered with surprising quickness and rage as he dropped his bat and pulled a fist and Clint was _right there_.

Clint wasn't fast enough to save him from the knockout, but he was saved, by the end cap of another bat as it struck Ivan and took him out for good. When he fell Clint turned to see the cop there, marginally lowering his bat. Everyone else lay across the floor, unmoving.

He got a good look at the officer. He was hunched over and breathing heavily, but his eyes were suspicious and quick and Clint realized he was being analyzed as well. Mask or no, he didn't appreciate the scrutiny so hastily moved back and behind one of the many crate stacks, on the side of the far back exit he had scoped out earlier.

"Stop! Police!" the cop called authoritatively, not that Clint listened. Not to his words anyway. He heard his slow steps moving a little farther away from him, coupled with breathing that didn't get any more obscured so it sounded like he was still facing Clint and his crates, just walking backwards. To get something, he bet. Better make this quick.

"I don't know what you thought you'd find here, but if you want proof of anything on these guys, you'd have better luck going for takeout. At that Chinese place across from Expresso. Well, the place that used to be Expresso," he added. "Anyway, there's this whole underground thing there, and Friday nights everyone's there for poker but with all of this going down I really wouldn't wait that long."

"What's it called?"

"Yeeeah, don't speak Chinese," he said in frustration, mostly because he had the characters plus the address all copied down on a sheet of paper he was going to leave with the anonymous tip he'd never finished back at his apartment. "And if you want me to keep talking, don't move. I can hear you." Not that his threat had any truth to it, but it would be much easier if the guy could not grab his gun and try to arrest him.

"Thanks man," Clint said casually when he didn't hear another step. The cop scowled in response.

Even though he wasn't as rushed for time now, Clint didn't slow down to relay everything he could, from territory boundaries to the places they threatened for money to individual names. He even touched on the rumored Russian deal, if he could take anything away from that. When the officer started asking questions is when Clint started to fall short. He answered as best he could, but there was only so much he could say when he was always left guessing himself.

"Look, I already told you everything I could think of," he said at last.

"Fine. Who are you?" the cop asked then. He had to know he wasn't getting an answer, right? He had to. So why would he- wait. That sound. That guy was moving again, just more carefully.

"Not happening," Clint muttered before raising his voice, "and if I were you, I'd worry more about calling backup before one of these guys gets up because buddy, you aren't in any condition to deal with that on your own and I can't stick around." He turned and made quickly for the back exit.

"Wait!" the officer called, and Clint almost stopped. Then he said "thank you," and Clint did.

"…Yeah," he replied, "hopefully you find everything to bust these guys. I mean. I really hope you do." Clint almost added an awkward 'bye,' but just left, leaving his bat by the exit and shoving his mask in his pocket as he fled. He reached the bus stop just in time, and heard police sirens as he boarded.

When Clint returned to his apartment he walked straight to his sleeping bag and began to roll it up.

Even though he wasn't followed and that other gang members were none the wiser, he was certain that there were now six guys who would be more than happy to spill everything they knew about Clint Carson, if not try to bust out and take care of him themselves. Nothing was off the table, and it was really just better to disappear.

Packing took all of five minutes, and he finished the job by pulling open a kitchen drawer. There he kept a few pens, post-it pads, a scissors, and a card. He picked up his scissors and fished out his wallet from his back pocket, opening it up and tugging out his fake ID card. Then he promptly cut it to shreds.

Once it was done he set down the scissors and reached into the drawer again, this time for the other card. He slid it into his wallet, and then shoved the sheared pieces of his former ID into his pocket. Things had kind of sucked for him, anyway. Maybe things would be better for Clint Smith.

It definitely started to look that way three days later when he came across various paper and news headlines, all celebrating the Chicago Police Department and their newest gang bust.

* * *

Next chapter:

_Situations did change, and it was time to level the playing field. He cracked open the book and started to read._


End file.
